Those Harper Women by Stephen Birmingham Page B

present age, is that Edith cannot for the life of her think of what to send him. She usually sends him an outfit, but she can never, at any given time, be sure of his size. And, worst of all, it has been months since she heard from Diana, and she really has no idea at the moment where Poo, or Diana, or Perry, or any of them are. She thinks to herself, then says it aloud to the empty room, “You’re a terrible grandmother … a terrible grandmother.”
    â€œSay, you’re a real nervous girl, aren’t you?” he says. “Look how your hand shakes lighting that cigarette.”
    Leona blows out the match and makes a wry face at him. “Are you always so personal , Mr. Purdy?” she asks him. “Is this always your approach to women you’ve just met? The direct question?”
    Grinning at her he says, “Only with some women, I guess. Women with nervous hands.” He reaches out with his index finger and touches her wrist. “Calm down,” he says. She withdraws the wrist.
    â€œPerhaps your questions make me nervous,” she says. “Besides, doesn’t a gentleman usually offer to light a lady’s cigarette?”
    â€œOh-oh,” he says, still grinning. “Huffy.”
    No, she thinks, not huffy. Just all at once trapped-feeling, and wondering why am I here. Oh, but you know why, she tells herself. It’s because you’re a girl who likes attention, and knows how to get it, and along came a man, and here you are. Even Doctor Hardman hadn’t been able to discover that simple, dreary little truth. “Leona Ware tilted her chin coquettishly, and the man became putty in her hands.” With a rueful smile she glances at Mr. Purdy, Mr. Putty, who is still smiling at her, and then she looks down at her nearly empty drink, a drink she didn’t need, and she twirls her swizzle stick in its remains. The bar at the Club Contant is beginning to fill with after-dinner drinkers, and the air is moist and heavy with smoke, and a native steel band has just started to play.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking,” she hears him say over the music. “You’re asking yourself: What’s a nice girl like me doing out with this mutt?”
    â€œOh, Arch!” she laughs. “Really!”
    â€œWell, the answer to that question is that I happened to come along and rescue you from a very awkward situation with Ed Winslow. Am I right?”
    â€œWell, partly.”
    â€œYou see? I’m a smart boy. I did well at school. And I’ve gotten you to call me Arch.” He signals the waiter for another round of drinks. “Now tell me one more thing,” he says. “What is it that you want?”
    â€œ Not another drink. Honestly.”
    â€œBut the night’s so young,” he says. “And you’re so beautiful. What is it you want—besides your art gallery?”
    Looking at him she says, “Actually, the art gallery is the only thing I want at the moment. I want that very much. And besides—”
    â€œBesides what?”
    â€œAnd besides, I’m going to have it!” She exhales a sharp stream of smoke and cuts through the smoke with her hand. “And until my gallery opens, nothing—literally nothing else is going to involve me in any way. Did I tell you I’d selected a location, on—”
    â€œOn Fifty-Ninth, just east of Madison, a floor-through in a brownstone.”
    â€œOh. Well, then you know how serious I am.”
    â€œA good address is always important,” he drawls. “When’d you get bitten by the art bug, anyway?”
    â€œAt—at Bennington,” she says defiantly.
    â€œUh-huh. Two months at Bennington and you’d learned all about art there was to know.”
    â€œI was there a whole term!” she says, and then feels her cheeks redden, seeing his eyes mock her. “Why are you giving me such a hard time?” she demands.